


Down in an Earlier Round

by apodiopsys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> In which Dean needs to be saved and Castiel does some (unconventional) saving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down in an Earlier Round

Castiel doesn’t mean to follow him outside when he says he needs air. He may not understand everything that comes out of Dean’s mouth – things about Delorean’s and flux capacitors, but he understands that he needs to get out, needs to get away from Sam yelling; Sam screaming and Sam pleading, begging, _Dean,_ begging, _Guys,_ begging, _If you’re out there, please, **help**_. He feels like he’s suffocating, choking to death on everything that things more powerful than he is are shoving down his throat. Parts of him want to claw at his chest, his ribs and his throat and his face until the feeling goes away, the one that tells him that he has no more control over his body than Jimmy had when he was still sharing it with Cas. His face twitches, Sam moans, _Dean, help me_ , and Cas says, “Dean, he just needs to get it out of his system.” Sam is begging in the background.

He turns his back on the angel, tips the bottle up so that amber liquid slides down his throat, burning in the beautiful way that alcohol only can. Upstairs, outside, the air is heavy with a storm, one that’s on its way, one that’s close. He tips his head up to the sky, looks at clouds hanging low and grey and angry. Dean’s back is towards the house, turning his back on his brother and his angel and the one he says is like a father to him. Castiel watches him from the shadows of some cars, watches Dean turn his head up towards heaven and ask for help, and he thinks that maybe pulling him out of hell wasn’t enough to save him.

Ignoring Dean’s personal space rules he moves so he’s behind him, invading his personal space and breathing his air. He turns around to find that he’s almost nose to nose with Cas, and he takes a small step back when he says, “Let me help you.” Dean shakes his head, shakes it no, shakes it because this isn’t what he meant. This isn’t how he meant it. The angel takes a step forward, and it moves like that, one step forward, one step back until he’s backed up against the impala, “I can help you,” he repeats, voice lower, voice rougher. There are warning bells going off in Dean’s head, like fire trucks and police cars and ambulances, complete with flashing lights and the _weeeeee woooooo_ out of European movies. He doesn’t even know how to make Cas back off, because he’s breaking every boundary he has, way up in his personal space and breathing the exact same air.

Dean can taste his breath.

There’s a sharp intake of air right before impact, and he isn’t sure if it’s from him or from Castiel, but then their lips are touching and he’s leaning in further, hands moving up to cup his neck and grip his hair, pulling him in closer and holding him tight. The air charges with electricity, and around them, headlights on cars start exploding, bursts of white energy shooting out with bright lights from the cars and everything else around them. They’re kissing in a shower of sparks raining down around them, and if Dean opened his eyes and if his mouth wasn’t being kept busy by an angel’s he’d probably make some sort of remark about Umbrella’s and Rihanna. As it is, he doesn’t; his eyes are closed and he’s kissing Castiel like his life depends on it, like he’s a drowning man and Cas is his life preserver.

Famine had been wrong: he hadn’t known it before, he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t needed, but he needed now, needed Cas, needed him to _help him_ in whatever way it was that he wanted to give him. The nothingness could be filled - not with drink, not with food, not with sex. With _Castiel._

He pants into open air, Cas’ lips moving across is jaw, whispering words in Enochian that he doesn’t understand. His breath is hot on his skin, and Dean’s fingers clutch at Castiel’s jacket, gripping the fabric tight and pulling him impossibly close, pulling him closer and closer like he can’t get enough contact, like he wants to pull him in and crawl inside him and stay there forever. They’re on the hood of the car now, Dean’s feet aren’t even touching the ground; pushed up against the windshield with Cas on top of him, Cas’ thigh in between his and Cas’ lips at his throat. The windshield wipers dig into his back but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. Right now, nothing matters except for him and Cas and the impala. Apocalypse? What apocalypse? Sam locked up and detoxing demon blood again doesn’t matter. Dean’s whole world has narrowed down to him and his angel.

“Please,” he says, and whatever Dean asks is what Castiel will give, so he kisses him again, kisses him deep and licks slowly into his mouth, tongue rubbing against the roof of his mouth to send sparks down his spine. Hands, large and warm slide down his sides, pushing up the t-shirt to rest heavy on Dean’s hips, skin touching skin and burning hot. His palms shift up across well formed abs, and Dean tips his head back to rest against the windshield, one hand curled into the back of Castiel’s shirt.

It’s getting dark fast, getting cold faster, and goosebumps rise to his skin where Cas pushes his shirt up. Castiel has never done this before; he knows the logistics, has seen how it’s done many times after having been stationed on earth for years and years on end. He’s never had reason to try, but it shows that he has a steep learning curve, making Dean shake and tilt his hips up to press against Castiel’s. He asks again; whispers _please_ on an outgoing breath that’s so quiet Cas almost thinks he imagined it.

His jeans are loose fitting: it’s easy for Cas to undo the button and zipper, one hand dipping inside to palm at his cock through faded black boxer-briefs. Dean jerks, leg slipping against the hood of the car as his shoe looses traction with the metal. The angel catches him with the hand that isn’t in his pants, grip on his arm firm and hard. It anchors him down, clears his head a little, reminds him what’s real. Cas is real. They’re real, breaths mixing together as they pant against each other on the hood of the impala. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, and then so he’s leaning against his palms. Their foreheads touch and their noses brush, and Dean has this sudden, choking need to forget, to forget and to _feel_ because he doesn’t feel anything anymore, not pleasure, not pain, not even fear - Dean Winchester isn’t even afraid of dying because he knows he’ll just be brought back to life.

The way he does it is almost forceful, but he pushes Cas down, down until his feet touch the ground again. His upper body still leans against the hood of the car, and he’s kneeling in between Dean’s legs, mouth dangerously fucking close to where he wants (needs) for it to be. “This is how you would like me?” he asks, and Dean groans, soft and low.

He says, “No.” Dean thinks about how this is an angel of the Lord, blocked off from Heaven for him and now he’s on his knees, asking Dean how he wants him, and he says, “Cas, please.” Their hands meet at the palm, finger fitting together like pieces from the same puzzle, and Castiel pulls him to his feet, pulls him around to the back of the car. It’s Dean that opens the back seat door, Dean that crawls in first and shoves the shit that’s on the seat to the floor. He pulls his own shirt off, pulls Cas in on top of him with his hands pushing at the lapels of his coat to get it off, to get more skin. The tie is tossed to the front of the car, buttons on the white button down popping off slowly until Dean gets impatient and tugs at both sides until the buttons break and the shirt falls open.

A sigh passes his lips, into Castiel’s mouth as he pulls him down by the neck for a kiss, giving him back the reigns and letting him have the control back. He spreads his legs, one curved at the knee against the backseat and the other resting on the floor. It’s strange for him to be in this position, the reverse of where he usually is. Usually, he’s on top, fitting in between someone’s legs, taking control, giving. Now he takes, takes from Cas what he can’t give.

Castiel kneels, unbuttoning and unzipping Dean’s pants. He pulls them down, shuffles back until he’s backed up against the closed door as he pulls them down his legs. Dean toes off his shoes, watches as Cas undresses the rest of himself slowly. His upper chest and shoulders are flushed, and Dean leans up, lips smoothing over his skin to his collarbone. There is such little space in the backseat like that, it almost feels claustrophobic the way there are two men in an enclosed space, breathing heavily and making the windows foggy.

The angel lowers himself over the human again, pushing him down with a hand firmly on his chest. Dean cups the back of his neck, fingertips touching the edges of his hair. He rocks his hips up, Cas’ thigh slipping in between his own. Bare skin has never felt so good against his own, warm and thrumming and _alive._ He’s gasping brokenly as Castiel sucks a deep mark into his skin, right where his neck and shoulder meets. His tongue flicks out to taste, and his skin is salty from a light sheen of sweat. Teeth scraping along his collarbone, he bites down carefully, leaving a bite shaped mark with tiny indents from his teeth right underneath. “Cas,” Dean begs softly, and Castiel’s eyes flick up to his face, seeing the expression of a broken man with eyes blown wide.

“Do you -” he starts to ask, but he’s cut off by Dean saying, “Glovebox.”

Cas leans forward over the front seats, body twisted at an awkward angle as he hooks his fingers into the handle to pull forward. He tosses maps and scraps of paper and a flashlight to the floor before his fingers close around a small, half empty tube of lubricant. Dean sighs when he slides two slick fingers into him, hips pressing back down against them. Castiel’s hands are calloused; he smooths one down his chest, curling it around his hip in a grip that’s just this side of too tight. He’ll have a hand-shaped bruise on his hip to match the hand-shaped scar on his shoulder and Dean thinks that it’s another piece of Castiel that he’d like to have on his skin forever.

“Cas,” he pants. “Cas, come on.” His vision has gone blurry at the edges, like everything is in soft focus. He shifts his foot further along the bottom of the impala, spreading his legs further. It burns when he pushes in, hurts for a few minutes because what with an apocalypse happening and demons to gank and the devil to kill, Dean hasn’t had much time for extra curricular activities. It starts getting really fucking good, and he’s slow at first, barely moving. It’s just short little rocks that move deep inside him while he whispers in his ear in Enochian and it sounds fucking beautiful. Dean has no idea what he’s saying.

He shifts up a little, braces his feet against the door and starts to thrust properly, pushing in deeper than before. Dean opens his eyes and Cas is _right there_ , eyes on his face all blue and intense and hot hot heat. “Cas,” he gasps, arching into him, his back bending like a bow. He’s deconstructing his entire body, taking him apart piece by piece. It’s agonizing in the best way possible, it hurts - it hurts so good, so perfectly that he never wants to end. Cas doesn’t stop touching him, one hand on his hip as their bodies move together like clockwork, always movingbreathingtouching as one.

Dean brings his legs up to wrap around Castiel’s waist, heels grazing the back of his legs before pressing against his ass, making the angle shift again as he’s forced in deeper. He cries out, voice cracking as Cas presses into just the right place, making lights dance in front of his eyes. Short fingernails drag down his spine, leaving red lines in skin as proof that Dean debauched him first. His hands and mouth are all over, touching and feeling and memorizing and tasting, and he’s making this really _hot_ growling noise in the back of his throat. Dean writhes underneath him, moaning in near shamelessness. He’s never felt so vulnerable like this before, like he’s some blushing church girl on her first time. Their eyes meet and Cas leans forward, capturing his lips in something that isn’t so much a kiss as them breathing each other in, sharing the same air as he rocks forward.

Something that sounds like _mine_ comes from Castiel’s mouth, brushing against the corner of Dean’s lips and cheeks and nose. He ducks his head and licks the sweat gathered at the hallow of his neck and Dean shakes. Cas whispers, “Come,” presses in deep and says in a rough voice - one rougher than usual, that makes a shudder go down Dean’s spine, one that’s clearly his bedroom voice - “Come for me.”

His mouth tastes faintly like mint and something else, something sweet that Dean can’t place. He comes so hard that he sees stars, that his body shakes with it; he comes with Castiel’s name on his lips like a Hail Mary, white streaks lining his chest. Cas thrusts once, twice, three times after Dean is done and he’s gone; it’s wet and dirty and really hot, and he bites Dean’s shoulder - the one unmarked by his hand - possessively.

Afterwards, they lie stretched out on the backseat of the impala. Castiel is still in between Dean’s legs, they’re still naked and the windows are still foggy, only now there are smudged handprints and fingerprints visible on the glass. It’s warm in the car, almost uncomfortable so. It smells like sex.

He whispers, “Thank you.” It’s so soft that Castiel thinks he imagined it, the same way he did when he made his pleas before. His hand is curled around his shoulder, fitting perfectly into the scar he left once upon a time.

Cas says, “I’ll save you every time.”


End file.
